Tears glistened in Lysandra's eyes. King Forthwind was in no shape to fight, despite the arms and armour. Years of inactivity, spent in the luxury of mourning had weakened him. Marching into battle now meant sure death.

Perhaps that was what he wished for.

She strode to him and took his hands.

"Father, you don't have to go. The Silverhaarts are back from their mission. I would defend the palace!" she pleaded.

He shook his head. "It is time that my reign came to an end, my dear. Forgive me, for I have been a neglectful father and king. This is my chance to atone for both."

But a sorrowful anger flared in Lysandra's eyes. "So you say. But the truth is, you're trying to escape your responsibilities. Like you always have! Neither have you any trust in my abilities."

She could have gone on.

She could have listed off all those things he'd done wrong, despite which Lysandra wanted her father to...stay. A gentle hand landed atop her head, so much love in that single gesture which she had not experienced in decades.

"What you accuse me of is only half right," he said, closing his yellowed eyes. "I do trust your abilities. That, however, had not always been the case. But the things you have done for Midaelia, the initiatives you have taken all by yourself has long since shattered my illusion. My gravest mistake is not realising them sooner. You are...better suited to this crown, much more than I."

Lysandra clenched her teeth, her insides churning at the sudden loss of control over all situations. For years she had worked on her ascent to the throne and future plans for the kingdom she would one day rule. She'd arranged all the pieces she would need upon her board, loyal soldiers, a tight-knit council of spies, and a trusted friend. Yet over the span of a single night, that board had been upturned, scattering all her pieces in an abrupt upheaval.

"Take this," Father said, taking out a roll of parchment. She took hold of it in trembling hands and unfurled its contents.

It consisted of the original layout plans of the palace, along with a forged one, numerous notes pointing the difference between the two in detail, complete with predictions of all possible tactics the enemy would employ when they went by the false map.

"Sergeant Linder left these for safekeeping. But his injuries are grave from what I hear, and I doubt he is fit to utilise this now. Perhaps he foresaw such a scenario, and wished for you to make use of them when the time comes."

The guards at the doorway announced the arrival of the battlemages. Doors to the courtroom creaked open, and Captain Walric strode in. Following her, one by one, the most elite of the warriors amongst the Silverhaarts marched to take their places at the princess's side, poses reminiscent of the old tapestries in the hall upstairs dedicated to the company. Marches returned from his patrol up on the battlements soon after, shaking water from his raincape. In silent steps, there came Hilda, and stood beside her.

The old captain did a silent observation of the scene and placed her hand on the pommel of her sword. "We are ready when you are, Your Highness."

And thus went her coronation, without an audience save for a few loyal friends, without grand feasts and the following through of age old traditions. Princess Lysandra knelt before the throne as her father placed the golden crown atop her head. Jewelled sceptre in hand, she ascended the stone steps to the throne of Midaelia and sat, dark eyes turned sharply at those present tonight.

Before her, the Silverhaarts and the Royal Sorcerer lowered themselves on one knee, a hand pressed against their hearts. Together they swore their fealty to the crown. The voices, mingled in a sombre chorus, ricocheted off the high walls of the hall, giving the illusion of many people speaking aloud.

At last, her father made to depart. He put on his helm and checked the sword at his belt one last time. A handful of Royal Guards, those still loyal to the throne, accompanied him at Lysandra's order.

"Farewell, my child," he said. "I will tell your mother all about you when I meet her again."

Lysandra smiled, full of scorn, even as tears threatened to spill from her eyes. "You are cruel indeed, Father, crowning me queen when the land is falling apart before our eyes and enemy forces await outside the walls."

He looked down, but did not answer. With a final nod, her father departed. Never did he come back through those ornate courtroom doors again.

"Marches," she called, no longer sounding casual and friendly in her tone, but stern and commanding, as though that crown alone had altered her in a matter of seconds.

"Your Majesty."

"What have you gleaned from your observations? Anything I need to know about the shadow-like being that wreaks havoc in my city?"

"It is none other than the one Sergeant Linder encountered, driven out of their body of flesh and cursed to linger like the shapeless entity as we now see," he said. "The sergeant succeeded in killing them, but now the soul is unable to pass into the Realm of the Dead."

He paused, seeming to have difficulty containing himself and putting his thoughts into words. "I have never seen anything quite like this. It appears as though Draedona herself is...hindering this soul from going either way. Neither can it truly die and pass on, nor can it return to its original body." He looked up, pale blue eyes fixed on the queen.

"A divine punishment...from Death herself," he said. "And so the vengeful soul drags the dead out of graves to bring destruction in its stead. Its power is enormous, now that it is no longer bound by a mortal form."

"Then how do we face this...thing?" asked Captain Walric. "Firing arrows at a non-corporeal shadow is wastage of priceless resources."

Marches brought his hands together, eyes shut for a moment. "Indeed. We cannot fight the entity head on, and neither can Draedona herself. But we can deplete it of strength by eliminating the corpses it's raising. Not just kill them, but completely eviscerate the Vasaeni, leaving no trace from which they can rise again."

Queen Lysandra cocked her head to the side, both hers and the captain's mind arriving to the same conclusion as their eyes met.

"Sacred Blades and fire, Captain," she said. "One to kill, the other to destroy. Turn them all to ashes."

"That we will, Your Majesty."

In her eyes flickered dark flames as she tightened her grip on the sceptre. "Still, there are those who might hinder you in your efforts today. Those who are not present before my eyes. My father may have tolerated them, but this is my reign now."

Faces went dark, for all knew too well who she spoke off.

"Allow me," said Hildegard of Goldcrest. "I would bring you the heads of the Miveresk brothers, wherever they may be hiding."

Lysandra could not help but let out a small laugh. "That would not be necessary. Seek them out and place them where my eyes can see. No need to sully your hands, which are better suited for finer things."

Hilda shook her head in response and then, rather daringly, strode up to one of the priceless ancient suits of armour lining the walls and pulled out a jewelled rapier out of its sheath. She gave it a swift brandish.

"You may be right, my Queen. Yet you take me too lightly. Yes, it is indeed fearsome when warriors such as you all take out your weapons, ready to attack," she said, the hint of indignation clear in her voice, "but when a poet picks up a sword... you ought to be terrified."

And with that she was off to her solitary mission, the queen smiling quaintly in the wake of her haughty departure.

Captain Walric gestured to some of her warriors who took their leaves, off to convey the plans.

"With that out of the way," the captain said, "I assume you will need additional forces to defend the palace while we march out on the streets."

"Ah, yes," said Lysandra. "That I have already arranged long since. Let us have a look at their preparations."

With that, she rose from her seat and set off down the courtroom. The rest followed as she headed right toward the very front doors of the palace. Second Lieutenant Audryn stood there amongst the barricades that had been formed along the tall flight of stone stairs leading all the way down to the drawbridge.

Burlap bags filled with sand were propped up, forming walls to give them cover, vantage points secured on the battlements directly overhead, escape routes ready through the portalways constructed there earlier by the joint efforts of Ryffin and Marches. Scores of soldiers heaved sacs full of a corrosive alchemical compound that they tossed into the water of the moat, turning it a sickly green colour. On the other side, archers stoked up fire to light up their arrows.

Sergeant Klo Wolturs now came running. She had not gotten more than a couple hours of rest since her return, and such was evident in her weary face, but still a spirit for battle lingered there. "Your...Majesty!"

Lysandra acknowledged her with a nod. "Is it ready?"

Klo answered her with a wave of her hand toward her soldiers and a shouted command: "Bring it forth!"

And so came the cart bearing the huge box hauled from Kinallen, whose contents she'd kept securely locked up till now. Today the sergeant pulled out a large key. The padlock clicked open, and chains clattered off.

Inside, was a Firemount.

"There were two of these," answered the sergeant to the astonished gasps of the people, "on the first night of the attack on Kinallen. I had my squad secure this one from the attackers."

Then she smiled to herself. "If we cannot replicate Drisian weaponry, we'll at least give them a taste of their own medicine."

Lysandra was pleased. Perhaps she would have gone on a queenly lecture too, to raise the spirits of the folk in the face of imminent danger, but two corporals now broke out into a loud argument nearby, one trying hard to hold back the other.

"I'll shred that thing to pieces!" cried Corporal Gray, throwing his limbs around to get out of the grip of Corporal Tonlin. "Rendarr, I swear to the Gods above if you don't let me go this instant--"

She looked down at them from the top of the steps. "So you want to fight that thing even Draedona fails to subdue."

"Ain't that obvious?" Gray shouted, before he looked back and realised who he was talking to. He stopped struggling at once. "...Apologies, Your Highness."

Several eyes glared at him to correct his erroneous addressing, but nothing seemed to get through his steaming head. Lysandra did not mind much.

"There's no way you can win against it. You wave your sword at it, but there's no flesh to cut," she said to the soldier. "Why are you so eager to throw yourself into a losing fight, Corporal?"

"Because--" Bitter tears flooded his cheeks as spoke. "That wretched thing hurt my brother! Gouged out his eye and--and now he can't see!" He hid his face in the crook of his elbow as he sobbed out loud. "And I couldn't do anything!"

Lysandra knew all too well whom he spoke of. She took a deep breath. "Then instead of heading right into death, you should fight to protect the palace where your brother lies to recover, shouldn't you? Look at all these faces around you. Would you not join their efforts, where there is a better chance to succeed, rather than fight the wrong cause?"

She raised her hand to gesture where above their heads the shadow roiled, rendering it difficult to discern whether it was still nighttime or dawn had come.

Gray lowered his head, looking at his sword hand which his companion still clasped, unwilling to let go. Only now did he notice the grand crown over her head and joined two and two.

"Tell me what I must do, Your Majesty."

Lysandra grinned wide as she turned to Marches. "Bring them the Quarleen masks. The palace should be fortified from the outside as well as the inside."

✦✧✦✧

Having dispatched the squads of masked soldiers to the cellar, Marches dashed up the stairs to his office for Ryffin.

The enchantment of the tunnel was not complete, one rune-- the last piece purposefully withheld. Now was the time to finish it and let the magic of the enchanted alleys engulf the tunnelway in an abyss, a death trap to disorient enemies. Both him and Ryffin knew how to mark it, yet in this trying time, Marches wanted him to set down the final block and complete the picture.

But Ryffin was nowhere to be found.

Neither was he on the upper level near the apothecary table. Another trip down to the cellar revealed he was not there, either.

A clatter sounded near his feet when Marches rushed into his office a second time. Looking down, he saw the ruby-studded brooch lying a few feet away.

Now his heart picked up pace, beating rapidly against his ribcage. Sweat popped on his forehead, trickling down his face. He froze where he stood.

The door to his office slammed shut behind him before he could move a muscle.

"Here you are, loitering about, when I'm scouring the whole palace for you, Royal Sorcerer!"

Marches turned. There was Miveresk, Captain of the Royal Guard leaning against the locked door. "It is no longer safe to wander alone, for the Drisian army crashes through the gates even as we speak. Would you not prefer an escort?"

"What have you done to Ryffin?" he asked through gritted teeth, fire flaring up in his hands almost by a reflex.

"Be careful with those flames, sorcerer," said the Royal Guard as he stooped to pick up the brooch.

"Where is he?" Marches repeated his question, even though terror disoriented his mind.

He could not win against this man, armed to the teeth and clad in armour of steel.

"Someplace where he would not be a nuisance. But fear not. He could not put up much of a fight, and so made our job easy. That is the thing about you scholars..." He looked at the glittering piece of ornament in his hand disdainfully. "Brilliant minds, but tragically useless in battle." He bent the brooch between two fingers.

Marches lunged at him.

He was no skilled battlemage, nor a warrior, but now his rage overcame both shortcomings.

A stream of fire burst forth.

Miveresk dodged effortlessly, and it hit his beloved rows of books, engulfing them in flames at once.

The Royal Guard then leapt forth, and closed what distance was left between the two. He unsheathed a long, gleaming knife.

The sorcerer lurched away, but his opponent was faster, swifter. His trained hand grasped Marches' shoulder to pull him forward towards himself. He could do nothing but let out a choked gasp as the long blade sank into his stomach. Blood blossomed into his spotless silk.

"You've done well. Now it's about time you rest," said Miveresk with a pat on his shoulder, and released him. With a firm kick to his chest, he dislodged the knife.

The fight ended as soon as it had begun.

All those years of learning, Marches thought as he staggered back, and an ordinary blade got me. He tripped over his desk and fell.

"Sleep well, Royal Sorcerer," Miveresk said before leaving. His cheek against the floor, Marches felt his every footstep though the cold stone as the Captain of the Royal Guard left the tower, slammed the door, then locked it from the outside. There were more voices besides his. He has allies. Soon after, the footsteps were fading away down the hall.

✦✧✦✧

Powerless.

There were countless times he'd come across that word, but this was the moment he truly felt it as he lay there, bleeding out, alone and shivering, unable to even stem the bleeding, something the most ordinary wielders of magic could manage. Why? Because it was something for the ordinary to manage.

He had never bothered to learn healing as he'd set out to secure himself the rank he had now. He had done everything he'd need to achieve that goal only.

Why would a Royal Sorcerer working within the safest place in the kingdom need to learn to protect himself? Why would he need to heal himself when he could have the king's personal physician tend to his health? He'd utilized that precious time. And for that they had praised him, applauded him. They'd appointed him Royal Sorcerer, the highest position of power one could hold in the field of magic. And for what?

To die unnoticed in his own tower.

He never made time to learn healing, not even after Ryffin had warned him.

Yes, I've earned it. Marches could let this be a final lesson, a price to pay for his shortcomings. But this was not the time to look all noble and accept death when many lives were depending upon him.

He cursed, at his own self or death he did not know, and dragged himself up, nauseous and lightheaded from the blood he was losing. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to look at the heavy drops that spilled on the floor as he tore off his beloved robes of silk and tied his side up.

He was not good at this either and the fine fabric was slippery.

Think, damnit.

He needed to reach the cellar before Miveresk by any means possible, place the final symbol and complete the enchantment himself, for even though his heart ached to find Ryffin, there was a tunnel full of soldiers below, waiting for the enchantment to be put into effect. If the Drisian army had indeed arrived, they would no doubt choose to strike at the weakest point and hit the tunnels first.

He repeated his goal to himself in a chant to keep himself from slipping into unconsciousness.

It was a daunting task, especially when one could barely stand, bleeding out fast and happened to be a certain obnoxious, snob sorcerer who turned their nose up at ordinary healing and irrelevant basics of sorcery. Marches thought he deserved a teeth-rattling slap. He would deliver it himself too, but now was not a good time.

The rune symbols Ryffin had taught him swam in a blur of black ink, became an illegible bunch of ant legs on the parchment scroll Marches now spread out before him with trembling hands. The enchantment in question, however, was no basic work. Thankfully Ryffin had completed the difficult parts, leaving only the final piece of the puzzle. How hard could that be, really, he wondered as he consulted their plans.

There, at the bottom of the scroll, in a different ink. This must be it.

"Ah, just one?" Marches was almost happy. But then he unrolled it further. More symbols. He was horrified to see how much of the parchment was still unrolled. He kept unrolling until he reached the bottom and a whole paragraph of runes was staring back at him. This is supposed to be 'one final piece of the puzzle'?

For a few moments he studied them with angry eyes.

With a huff of both pain and exasperation, Marches tore off the parchment, then scoured the drawers for ritual chalk. The floor was swaying beneath his feet. Even through his misery, he was grateful for the fact that Royal Guards didn't yet know of the secret passageway.

It was a struggle not to collapse from the wave of dizziness that overtook him and the pain, greater than anything he had ever experienced before.

Breathe.

He took deep, shuddering breaths to calm the nausea. The distance between the door and the stone shelf felt like leagues. One step at a time. One foot before another. He dragged himself across the room, bent double and one hand pressed to his wound, leaving a trail of blood that spilled from between his fingers.

The couch in the corner looked so welcoming. If he could just lie down for a second, perhaps...No. Even at that moment Miveresk might be leading the Vasaen troops in through the tunnel. The others stationed there would have no clue until it was too late. Marches could not let that happen. They were counting on him and...Ryffin.

"Come on," he muttered as he rotated the crystal ball with all his strength. At first it slipped beneath his bloody grip and wouldn't budge. Was it because the machinery was stuck or he was weakened, Marches didn't know. It's because the Gods are an unfair bunch-

The lever revolved.

Ah, thank the Gods. Rhilios' mercy. But the little optimism in him vanished as he crawled over and peered down the now open passageway and the staircase peered back at him-- a dark, bottomless, spiralling pit of misery.

These precious runes better work after I put them down, Marches thought as he made his painful descent down the steps.

Otherwise my ghost will haunt you all at the most embarrassing of times, I swear to Draedona!

✦✧✦✧

Gray leaned heavily against the wall, sword trembling in his grip, face hidden beneath a Quarleen mask. "When is the damn enchantment going to set in? An ordinary tunnel is all I see. This ain't no trap!"

"What on earth is the Royal Sorcerer doing?" cried many voices. "Where's that alchemist?"

Firemounts had sounded somewhere off to the south, eeriely close to the city gates. From the chorus of shouts and rumbling of blades and armour, a battle seemed to have broken out-- before all went silent.

Within the dark confines of this underground passageway there was no way to tell what truly went on upstairs. Keeping watch on the end where it opened unto the canals was all they could do, clutching the Sacred Blades in afeard grips.

A hand gripped Gray's, tight and shivering.

"Gods, I don't wanna die in this cramped hellhole," said Rendarr behind his mask.

This is not how I wanted to meet our end.

Not like this.

The rest were quiet. Too quiet to be completely calm.

Voices in a foreign tongue echoed outside. At the far end of the tunnel, the metal gridwork smashed inward as a battering ram collided into it from the outside.

Hoarse whispers sounded among the Midaelian soldiers. "They're here."

✦✧✦✧

When Marches pulled himself down the final step of the staircase, his soul was halfway out his body. More hallways and turns. At that moment he truly appreciated just how lovely a tiny cottage would be.

Two more Royal Guards were headed to entrance to the cellar. Before he could even attempt to hide, their eyes fell on Marches. Both scowled.

Marches crouched, bracing his hand against his wound and took a deep breath.

"This is no time for pointless negotiation," he muttered. He'd have to run for it. This was the only way into the cellar. But before he could bring his strained muscles to move, the guards dashed up, so much faster than the wounded sorcerer, and roughly grabbed both his arms.

"You'll go no further," said one of them, a cruel grin spreading across his face.

His struggle against them proved futile and he only managed to lose more blood in the effort.

"Captain Miveresk might've gone easy on you, but we won't," spat the other as they dragged him down the hall.

Injured and angered and helpless, Marches' fury now knew no bounds, his own words sounding strange to his ears.

"So this is how you repay your kingdom?" he snarled as they tried to haul him away, "you traitor scums!"

They paused, one of them cuffing him hard across his face. Something crumbled in his jaw and he tasted blood.

"Throw him in the dungeon with that Velan alchemist!" cried the other.

"So a filthy dungeon is where you stowed him," he muttered, heavy breaths shaking his whole frame. "Like a criminal. Whereas the real traitor walks free, dons the royal emblem and commands you."

The two guards leaned over him in amusement. "And what're you gonna do about it, sorcerer?"

He did not know what stole over him at that moment.

Marches pulled back, then launched himself forward with all the strength he could muster, and headbutted one of the guards right under his jaw. The guard collapsed on the ground, hands over his mouth, screaming as blood flowed from between his fingers. He'd had bitten right through his own tongue. Good.

"Why you--" The other guard tightened an arm around his neck, pulling out his shortsword. Marches felt the cool blade against his throat and closed his eyes, too weakened to resist.

--"Is this how you treat our esteemed Royal Sorcerer?"

The guard paused. Marches twisted back to see Hilda standing behind them, the tip of her rapier resting against the side of the Royal Guard's neck, who gulped. "Get the hell out of our way if you value your life, damned bard! We do what our captain asks of us."

Several boots clattered round the corner of the hallway. Miveresk came striding towards them, twenty or so Royal Guards in tow. For a moment, he and the Marches locked gazes; the next, the guards were dashing up to him and Hilda, blades unsheathed.

With a cruel thrust of her blade and a sickening sqelch, she impaled the throat of the guard holding Marches. The body fell with a thud.

She stood between him and Miveresk's men.

"We'll take it from here," she said. "Stand back. You needn't trouble yourself with filth like these."

From the other end of the hall behind her, a squad of mercenaries came rushing their way. Two opposite forces clashed.

Gratefulness flooded his heart. But he would have to thank her later, for now he had no moment to lose. As the scuffle continued in slamming of blades and angry shouts, he found his way down the cellar.

Marches clambered across the dank cellar floor to the tunnel entrance, eyes searching through his hazy vision for the correct place to put down the final part of the enchantment. Outside, the shouting and clamour rose again.

Worry gripped him as he searched for the empty place among the runes.

After all, it was all his fault.

He should have been more careful-- or capable enough to knock Miveresk out cold when he charged at him with a knife.

He found the right place at last, at the edge of the tunnel, where the third row of runes were scrawled across the wall. On his hands and knees now, Marches scurried up to there, hope swelling in his heart.

At last he unclenched his fist to consult the torn piece of parchment where the runes were copied.

No. By the Gods, no.

Uttering a curse, Marches collapsed with his face against the floor.

He'd been pressing up his hand on the wound, and thus the parchment was soaked through in his own blood, rendering the written symbols completely illegible. It seemed the entire world was against him today.

Were the Gods testing him?

Well, if this was a test, Marches would very much like to tear his answer sheet to pieces and blow them away at the examiner's face and leave the hall to face the consequences. It was at that moment the cellar door began to quiver with loud bangs.

"Open up, you piece of scum!" Miveresk was shouting, "open up and I may let you live. Short of a few limbs!"

Marches was about to ask him to come in and take him out of his misery when shouts drifted in from both sides; from inside the tunnel and from outside the cellar, and his panic did a prize winning gallop as he realised, from the curses being hurled about, that Drisian soldiers were inside the tunnel already.

He fumbled in his pocket for the chalks and pulled himself up-- and strained his memory to make sense of the mess of the symbols before him. A battle had broken out into the dark depths of the tunnel, and Miveresk's threats had risen to pure profanity as the door hinges began to give way under his kicks.

With unsteady fingers, Marches put down the first row of letters--then waited a mere second, anticipating an explosion to result from the runes if they were wrong.

The symbols glowed once, then faded to become part of the rest. Marches heaved a sigh.

The next few moments went in a blur of scribbling on the stone. His mind's eyes were back up at the tower, at the study table where Ryffin taught him the runes, while his hands drew the marks with the vague help the bloodsoaked parchment provided. His spirits rose high as he began putting down the final row.

More screams came from the tunnel. Hold on a little longer, I beg you.

That was when the cellar door flew off its hinges, and Miveresk was hurtling toward him, bloodied and furious, fresh blood dripping from his sword. He raised his sword over his head, and the blade descended upon Marches.

It never did land.

A melodious yet terrifying voice spoke behind the man.

"Her Majesty asked me to bring you to her, Miveresk. Yet it looks like I'll only bring your head."

A jeweled rapier tore through the throat of the Royal Guard, spraying Marches with warm blood. A savage twist brought the head down clean from the shoulders, sending it rolling into the darkness of the tunnel. The man's sword fell to the floor with a clang.

The final rune glowed a victorious green as Marches tossed away the chalk piece. The tunnel became an impenetrable, vengeful dark.

Lights out.

Before unconsciousness took the sorcerer, he cried at the top of his lungs, with the last of the strength he had left.

"Long live the Queen!"